Complications
by OTS
Summary: Michael goes grocery shopping for his mother. Simple, right? If only things in the Burn Notice universe were that easy. Rated T for mild violence. Please review--first Burn Notice fic! Would love to hear what you think! now complete
1. Groceries

**Burn Notice**

**Chapter 1: Groceries**

Guns make people nervous. They're heavy, loud, and when used incorrectly, or correctly, for that matter, are almost always lethal. That's why as soon as a gun is drawn, people tend to scatter. On most occasions, this is ideal. The gunman will get caught up in the confusion of the crowd and will either fire a warning shot, or will simply panic. When this happens, it usually gives the local police force enough time to pull up and detain him. Granted, this scenario only involves a single man waving around a Glock 17 or a 9mm Beretta. Not three men in masks wielding AK-47s. This tends to complicate things a little.

---

It started as a Saturday morning, and because my mother, Madeline, called and had all but yelled at me saying there was 'an emergency and I needed to come over now!' I had jumped into the Charger, (a 'gift' from good ol' dad), and sped down to her house. Only to find that nothing was wrong. Only to find that the so called 'emergency' was nothing more than an absence of groceries.

"Michael!" My mother began, as I rolled my eyes and started towards the front door. "Michael, I have a poker game at four with the girls! How am I supposed to host a poker game without snacks and beverages? I'd feel like a horrible person." I was still trying to recover from hearing her use the word 'girls,' (since all of her friends were easily over sixty), and obviously, I wasn't quick enough in answering, because she glared at me and launched into another tirade about how 'most sons would gladly shop for their elderly, incapable mothers.' I wanted to point out that I was not like most sons. I wanted to point out that she was far from incapable. (The shotgun hidden in the back of her closet backed that up.) I wanted to _leave_ – to head back home and salvage whatever sleep I could get. But I couldn't, and didn't, because at that moment, she pulled the 'guilt-trip' card on me, meaning that she sat down in the nearest chair, and proceeded to cry.

You'd think that after twenty odd years of working as a spy and having to deal with death and misery on a daily basis – you'd think that I would've built up some sort of immunity against my mother's tears. Of course, you've never met Madeline.

"Fine, ma, I'll go buy your groceries," I relented with a sigh. "Do you have a list of the things you need?" She perked up immediately, jumped out of her chair, and scampered into the kitchen.

"I've got one right here!" She called back to me. A minute later, she was back in the living room, pressing twenty bucks and an exceedingly long list into my hands. "Thank you, Michael," she said sweetly. I stared down at the list. For one thing, there was no possible way that she was able to write the list up so fast, which lead me to believe that the action was premeditated. She must have known that I'd eventually cave in. I examined the list closer, making mental calculations in my head, and arriving to an unsurprising conclusion.

"You do know that a twenty is nowhere _near_ enough to cover the cost of all this, right?" She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and stuck it in her mouth.

"It was all I could find lying around." She blew the smoke off to the side.

"What about the rest?" I inquired. Madeline shrugged.

"Oh, you'll think of something." In other words, 'Oh, you can pay the difference.' I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. Some things just weren't worth the fight.

**---**

**A/N:** This is most likely going to be a short fanfiction. I'd guess that it will have about...three chapters at most. The second chapter will be posted soon, depending on how fast I finish my Bio project. Anyways, **please read and review!** I'd love to hear what you guys think, since this is my first time writing a Burn Notice fanfiction. I'm not sure if I got his 'tone' down, though--Michael Westen is a hard man to write!


	2. Snag

**Burn Notice**

**Chapter 2: Snag**

As a spy, you become accustomed to dealing with awkward situations. If you suddenly get thrown into the middle of a negotiation that looks as if it might turn ugly, then you adapt and move on. You make the necessary changes to your plan, then proceed as if that was your original intention.

I've learned to apply the same tactics when dealing with my mother. Every time I visit Madeline, the situation has the potential to become dangerous. So, I _adapt_ and _move on_. If this means complying with her ridiculous terms, (say for instance, agreeing to purchase well over fifty products from the local grocery store with nothing but a twenty and whatever change that can be scrounged), then I would gladly oblige, if only to avoid yet another argument.

---

I glanced back down at the grocery list, absently pushing the almost-full cart with my other hand. Fifteen minutes spent shopping and I still wasn't even halfway done. But then again, I wasn't surprised – when my mother was unsure of what to make for her 'girlfriend's night out,' she tended to buy _everything_ just as a precaution. And no, I'm not exaggerating. At least she was kind enough to label the foods with their corresponding aisle. Thanks a lot, Madeline.

Looking up, I noted that I had stopped in front of the dairy aisle, so I once again consulted the list.

_Butter_

_Unsalted butter_

_Low fat butter_

_I can't believe it's not butter! _

Who did she think she was? Paula Deen? I was certain that she didn't need four different kinds of butter; so instead, I grabbed the cheapest brand from the shelf and tossed it into the cart. "Sorry ma," I muttered sarcastically. A few more steps brought me in front of the milk section, and another glance at the list caused my eyes to roll.

_1% fat milk_

_2% fat milk _

_Skim milk _

_Reduced fat milk _

This was getting ridiculous. I snatched the nearest milk cartoon from the shelf, stuffed the list back into my pocket, and turned the cart around. That's it – I was done. There was already enough food in the cart to end world hunger. Madeline could deal without the unsweetened chocolate chips, honey-roasted peanuts, and whatever-the-hell-else was left on the list. I quickly pushed the cart past the dairy aisle, fully intent on paying for the food and getting back to Madeline's house as soon as possible. The faster those things were done, the faster I could finally head home and relax. And maybe eat a yogurt or two. I pulled my cart to a stop behind the many people in line. Frustrated, I looked around. The only lane that was completely free of people was the express 'do-it-yourself' checkout stand. Another glance revealed that the pleasure of scanning my own food products could be all mine if I had just fifteen items or less. I looked down at my cart, which was filled to the top with food, and snorted. Right. Instead, I wheeled the cart around at pulled up to a stop behind a miraculously short line. I'd just have to settle for second-best.

This proved to be a mistake.

The cashier was kid – an older teenager – that seemed to be incapable of speaking intelligently, instead opting to use low grunts as a form of communication. He also didn't know how to properly use the cash register, because ten minutes after I had stepped in line, he was still trying to figure out how to open it so that he could retrieve his change. At first, he waved off an employee that stepped up to help him, grunting angrily. Surprisingly, the employee, who looked to be the same age, understood him and made an equally animalistic noises back. I took a deep breath, my eyes wandering around the store, and vaguely wondered if this was a new form of communication that the teens were using these days. I glanced back and was relieved to see that animal-boy had finally relented and accepted the other employee's help. My relief was short-lived, however, because it seemed that animal-boy number two was on the same level of intelligence as animal-boy number one. Neither of them was able to open the cash register. I watched their exchange of grunts with increasing irritation. Just as I was about to step up and open the register myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"…Sir? I think you dropped this." An elderly woman stood behind me holding up the cheap brand of butter I'd thrown into the cart. I took it from her with a mumble of thanks.

And that's when I saw them. Three men stood outside the grocery store, as if contemplating on whether or not they should enter. This alone was not odd. What was a little out of the ordinary was the fact that they wore masks over their heads, and each of them carried what looked to be AK-47 assault rifles. In seconds, they had entered the store. The largest of the three men grabbed his rifle, thumbed off the safety, and fired a few warning shots into the air.

That's when the chaos started.

---

**A/N:** So, I actually had this written out last week, but my computer crashed, and the file didn't save. I certainly had a fun time trying to type this out by memory…NOT. Anyways, at last it's uploaded. This chapter is something of a filler – the real action doesn't begin until chapter three. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that there will be four chapters total, but chapter four will be an epilogue sort of thing. So, **please read and review**! Chapter three is in the works, and I hope to have it out soon. Oh, and about the men in masks - let's just say they're not here to shop for groceries. ;)


	3. Adapt

**Burn Notice**

**Chapter 3: Adapt**

Most spies thrive in chaotic situations, especially spies that are extremely well-prepared. When madness breaks out, it usually gives the agent in question enough time to escape, or to quickly use the circumstances to their advantage.

Unfortunately, I am no longer a spy. Therefore, when the larger gunman fired his AK-47 into the air, and when some customers immediately began screaming, while others ducked their heads, I became royally pissed off. Not just at the three masked-men, but also at myself for letting my guard down. Of course, the average person usually doesn't expect to be caught in the middle of a firefight while in the cereal aisle of their local grocery store. But I had lived enough years of my life to learn that every situation has the potential to become dangerous. This became especially apparent after I was burned. (Government lingo for 'getting my ass kicked out of the spy business.') As soon as I landed in Miami some months back, I'd had encounter after encounter with people that wanted to see me dead. Those encounters had been less frequent over the past few months, and I was grateful for the respite. As I watched the gunmen amble around the store, shouting at people to 'get down,' I had a feeling that my break had just ended. This was confirmed when the shorter gunman turned towards me, eyes widening behind his mask, and shouted:

"Westen!"

Now, I'm not the kind of guy that flees and lets others take the fall for him. I'm also not stupid. So, after the shorter gunman shouted out my name, I stood still long enough for the other two accomplices to see my face, thus assuring that they knew specifically what I looked like, and wouldn't harm anyone else. Then I ran.

Let me give you a little insight as to what it's like running at full speed in a less-than-spacious grocery store: It's tricky. Difficult. Sometimes painful. But if you can successfully maneuver around the food stands, shopping carts, and the occasional elderly woman with a basket, then you have an advantage over those chasing you. I quickly glanced over my shoulder, noting that the shorter gunman was having issues traversing the sea of people that were still running aimlessly around. This was quickly solved by a burst of gunfire into the air, and a shout telling the people to "move out of the way!" Except, what he really said was, "Přesun z cesty!"

Perfect. The single fact that the man was Czech alerted me as to why the three gunmen were here. Only two weeks ago, the Czech government sent an assassin to Miami. Not just any run-of-the-mill assassin that you can hire off the streets, but one that I'd come into contact more times than I was comfortable with throughout my career as a spy. Of course, it's never comfortable running into an assassin period, especially not one as dedicated as Jan Haseck. And when he suddenly showed up in Miami, I was forced to thwart attempt after attempt on my life. Needless to say, it didn't end well for Jan. After I tried to extract information regarding my burn notice out of him, he was taken to the local jail, where he was found dead the following morning. The three men were obviously round two. The question is: who sends three assassins after one target? These days, the answer is either a pissed off rich person, or a pissed off government. My bet is on the latter. This did not bother me as much as the fact that I hadn't seen anyone follow me to the store. Just because it was the weekend didn't mean that I could slack off. In my business, or ex-business if you want to be technical, slacking off can cause you to wake up in a foreign country with power-hungry men standing over you demanding information. Or it can simply cause you to not wake up at all.

Despite the fact that the man had cleared the immediate area by firing rounds into the air, he was still stockier than me – less agile. I used my speed to my advantage, rushed towards the cereal isle, and put my back to the nearest shelf, waiting for the man to rush past me. Which he did moments later, skidding to a stop when he realized that I was no longer in front of him. He paused, his gun slack in his grip, confused. This sight made me happy, or as happy as one can be in such a situation. Any decent assassin would always keep their gun ready, even if the target had slipped out of sight. The fact that the man continued to stand with his gun facing the ground revealed that apart from firing his AK-47 into the air, he really had no idea what he was doing or how to do it. He continued to hesitate, leaving his back unprotected, so I stepped forwards and slammed my elbow into the base of his neck. In ideal situations, this causes the opponent to either pass out, or be incapacitated long enough for you to do it again. If this move is done correctly, there's no need to perform it a second time. The gunman gave a small grunt and fell forward, dropping his rifle in the process. I grabbed the gun, then grabbed the man and dragged him to the nearby fruits and vegetables section.

Improvisation is a good skill to have. Whether you're a spy or simply a teacher that has forgotten to bring the day's lesson plan, improvising is very important. Since most grocery stores don't stock the plastic cables that I prefer to use when dealing with would-be assassins, I figured that the thin wires holding the baskets of fruit together would work just fine, even if they were slightly more painful. I grabbed said basket, dumped out the fruit, and unraveled it until I had a suitably long enough piece. Then I cabled the man's hands to the stand.

One down. I could still hear the other two men shouting and tromping around the store, and by the way things sounded, they were separated by the throng of people. My assumptions proved to be correct, because at that exact moment, the largest of the gunmen stepped around the corner, his eyes lighting up in recognition when he saw me. Before he could utter a word, I rushed towards him, dodged the misplaced swing of his rifle, and struck him directly in the jugular. The man gave a strangled yelp, then crumpled to the ground, because it's hard to remain standing when someone punches you in the throat. While he was on the floor coughing, I slammed the butt of my recently acquired AK-47 onto his neck, and he, like his other partner, was down for the count. Minutes later, he was also cabled to the fruit stand. That left only one more man.

By this time, most of the customers in the store had realized that running around and screaming was doing absolutely nothing, and from where I was standing, I could see that a fair number of them had taken to huddling in the far corner of the building. Then I discovered the reason why. The final member of my would-be-assassins was pacing back and forth in front of them, speaking in tones too quiet for me to hear. Then he pointed his gun at one of the customers whom I recognized as the teenager that was working the cash register in my line prior to the interruption. I stood up and walked swiftly towards him, shifting the grip on my rifle, letting my forefinger slide towards the trigger. If worst came to worst, I was prepared to kill the gunman.

I'm not the type of person who enjoys killing people. It's often messy, and the psychological experience that follows the killing of another human leaves something to be desired. Even as a spy, I tended to avoid doing things that would lead me to taking a life. But in some circumstances, there is no other option. In some circumstances in which it's either your life or the life of a civilian versus your opponent's, then killing said opponent becomes unavoidable.

The gunman jabbed the teen in the cheek with his AK-47, speaking in low undertones.

"You know," I called out, watching the man spin around to face me, "if I were in your shoes, I'd spend less time poking innocent people with an assault rifle, and more time looking for my actual target." The man glared angrily and shouted a string of rapid, incoherent words.

"My Czech is rusty at best, and when you talk really fast like that, it's a little hard to understand you. I recommend speaking slower. It also wouldn't hurt if you tried speaking English," I said as I walked closer to him. He pointed his rifle at me and shouted,

"Stop! No move closer!" He enunciated each of the words carefully. I halted within several feet of the gunman, quickly assessing the number of customers situated behind him.

"I understood that. See? You're getting better already." I was in the process of inching closer to him, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A balding, middle-aged man was slowly lifting a box of crackers above his head; poised to throw them. He caught my eye and I gave a barely discernable nod. The man threw the crackers at the gunman, hitting him directly in the back of the head, causing him to turn around. Even if you're an assassin-for-hire, it's still hard to keep your sights set on your target when you're getting a box of saltine crackers tossed at your head. I took advantage of the split second that the man had his back to me, and leapt forwards, snatching the AK-47 from his tight grasp. The gunman whirled angrily, only to have the bone in his nose shatter when it collided with my palm. I tossed the rifle aside and prepared to deliver the blow that would render him unconscious. But just as I'd tightened my fingers into a fist, he whipped a knife out from his jacket and brandished it in my face; his nose bleeding furiously, eyes murderous. I yanked my head back, because even ex-spies aren't impervious to knives. The gunman tossed the blade to his left hand and rushed at me.

This was his first mistake. In the middle of a fight, it's easy to separate those that have been trained from those that haven't. Untrained men usually act off their adrenaline, rather than using their heads. Adrenaline can help save your life, but it can also make you stupid. I sidestepped the man's swing, grabbed the arm with the knife, and twisted it behind his back. He jerked backwards, but I held on tightly and used the man's current momentum to swing him towards the floor. His forehead connected with the tiles with a resounding crack, and he slumped, unconscious. "Sorry," I amended, "that sounded painful." I dropped the gunman onto the ground, stood up, and turned to face the customers standing wide-eyed behind me. I picked the teenager out of the crowd; the one who I'd called animal-boy number two, and caught his eye. "I suggest you call the police, if that hasn't been done already. Tell them that three men broke into your store and started waving around AK-47s. That should be enough to grab their attention." The kid nodded. "You'll find the other two men in the back of the store, near the fruits and vegetables." He nodded again, then moved to the nearest register and started punching numbers in the phone. Animal boy number one, stepped forward, and said,

"You rock, dude!" There were many nods and murmurs of agreement from the throng of customers. He walked over to my discarded cart, which I'd all but forgotten about, and with the help of several other employees, had packed all of my groceries into two paper bags. Animal-boy number one smiled at me gratefully as he shoved the last carton of eggs into the bag.

"The groceries are on the house," he said, surprising me with his knowledge of the English language – I was expecting more grunts. Instead of saying anything, however, I simply nodded my thanks, grabbed the two bags full of groceries, and walked out of the store. With any luck, I wouldn't be jumped by any assassins on my way to the car.

---

**A/N:** Wow, long chapter! I hope it makes up for how long it's been... Epilogue to come next. It's done, but I'm going to wait until Wednesday afternoon-ish to post it – thought I'd give you a chance to absorb all of this. **Please read and review**!

Oh, and thanks to all of my previous reviewers – you guys are awesome! When my computer kept crashing, it was your reviews that kept me motivated. I'm sorry that I can't send each and every one of you replies. I'd very much love to, but… school has been busy at best. Junior year is tougher than I imagined! :(

Disclaimer: Don't own Burn Notice.


	4. Epilogue: Move On

**Burn Notice**

**Epilogue: Move On**

Sam Axe is a good friend to have. He doesn't ask questions and has numerous contacts that have turned out to be helpful. Whether you need to borrow a boat, (with the intention of returning it in less-than-stellar condition, or not returning it at all), or you simply need someone to exchange thoughts with, I've found him to be very reliable. The one problem with Sam, however, is that he's the type of guy that eats just to have something to do. More often than not, when I'm talking to him, he'll either be eating something greasy that he insists is actual food, or he'll be drinking a beer.

Take now, for instance. I was sitting in the loft that's recently become my home, recounting the events regarding the Czech assassins. All the while, Sam was nodding and making comments and shoving handfuls of chips in the approximate direction of his face. His ability to talk without spraying bits of food out of his mouth impressed me, though frankly, it was also making me sick.

"What I don't get," Sam said, shoving another handful of corn chips into his mouth, "is why someone would send three assassins after one guy. I mean, I can understand sending one, maybe two, but three?" He shook his head. "Someone's really got it out for you, Mike. Who do you think sent them?" I shrugged.

"Could be a number of people. I haven't exactly made a lot of friends these past few years."

"Yeah, you seem to have a tendency to piss off the wrong people," Sam agreed. I leaned back against the counter.

"Remember Jan Hasseck?"

"How could I forget?" Sam gave a small laugh. "Not exactly a gentleman, that guy. What about him?" I shot him a pointed look, causing Sam to shift in his chair. "You think it's a follow-up? Someone wanting to finish up Jan's job?" I sighed.

"As of now, all signs point to yes." Sam frowned, and devoured another handful of chips. I looked away, trying to retain what little appetite I had left.

"Huh. Still, why three assassins?" Sam asked. Once again, I shrugged. That was the question – why go through all the trouble to send three assassins after one guy? And why would the men try to kill me while I was in a _grocery store_, where it would be hard to pick me out from the rest of the crowd? Why not in some dark Miami alleyway that I've found myself in more than once? I shook my head. These days, it felt like the whole of my life was split between trying to figure out who burned me and who keeps trying to kill me and why. Of course, the two could very well be connected. I absentmindedly glanced over at the tortilla chips Sam was still eating, and something suddenly clicked.

"Where did you get that?" I asked, pointing at the Tostitos. Sam looked down at them.

"What, these?" I nodded. "From one of the grocery bags sitting on the counter." He popped another chip in his mouth. "You know, Mikey, it's nice to finally eat some _real _food at your place, 'cause I gotta' tell you – and no offense – but that yogurt of yours just doesn't fill a guy up." He held out the bag. "Want some?" I shook my head. Only one thing had registered in my mind: groceries. Madeline.

"_I have a poker game at four with the girls!"_

Crap.

In all of the confusion concerning the assassins, I'd nearly forgotten the reason why I'd gone to the store in the first place. I hurriedly looked at my watch: 3:27. Still enough time. I pushed away from the counter and grabbed both bags of groceries, snatching the chips from Sam as I passed him.

"Hey!" He exclaimed. "I was eating those!"

"I'll buy you some more," I said over my shoulder. It looked like he was about to reply, but before he could do so, I was out the door and jogging towards the Charger.

---

"What took you so long?" Were the first words that came out of Madeline's mouth when she'd opened the door. My faux smile slowly slid into a frown as I stepped over the threshold. Not even a 'hello'. No; 'thank you for taking time out of your busy Saturday to buy me groceries, Michael'. All right, so I wasn't all that busy. But the least she could do was offer up a 'thank you'. I placed the groceries on her counter and glanced back at Madeline. She was leaning on the now-closed door, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for an explanation.

"I got stuck in traffic," I lied. No need for Madeline to know the truth – I'd only get another lecture about how 'I never tell her anything anymore,' and that she doesn't like 'being kept in the dark'. I've never pointed out to her that being kept in the dark is what has kept her alive during all the years of me being a spy – it's what kept my enemies from using her as means of getting to me. You just don't point those kinds of things out to your mother.

"Traffic, huh?" She asked, crossing her arms. The tone of her voice suggested that she knew I was lying. Regardless, I smiled, clenching my teeth together.

"Yeah. _Lots_ of traffic." An awkward silence filled the room. Madeline stared at me, and I stared right back. My smile seemed to be frozen in place. Several long seconds passed. I looked away first, glancing down at the counter, then at my watch. "You know, ma, I really have to get going," I said, inching my way towards the door. "I've got to get back to the loft – Sam needs to talk to me about some stuff." She raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of stuff?" I grimaced reflexively, and was glad that I was facing the door.

"Oh, you know; work stuff. Pretty boring, actually," I replied, keeping my tone light. I gripped the knob and turned the handle, opening the door. I'd actually made it down two of the steps on the front porch when she spoke again.

"Well, in that case, you can go pick up my dry cleaning!" She called out cheerfully.

"I'm busy," came my automatic response. And then I turned around and made the mistake of looking at her. Madeline's eyes began to water, and her lower lip quivered.

Nope. Not again. I stepped onto the driveway, then heard her say,

"Please, Michael?"

I halted in mid-step, forcing myself not to turn around and comment back. Instead, I looked up at the unreasonably bright, cloudless Miami sky, and counted to ten. Then I opened the door to the Charger, slid inside, and started the engine. As I pulled out of my mother's driveway and looked in my rearview mirror, I saw Madeline waving at me, grinning happily. One of these days I was going to learn the trick behind my mother's guilt-trips.

I turned left at the end of the street and started towards the dry cleaners.

---

**A/N: **Well, that's it everyone! I know it was a short story, but hopefully you all enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. To everyone that has reviewed thus far, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! Thank you all very much!

I'm debating on whether or not to write another Burn Notice fanfiction – I've already mapped out a basic plotline in my head. If things go well, and if I don't have too much homework, I might take to writing it.

Anyways, **please read and review**! And thanks again! :)


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